


blame it on the juice, baby

by lazy_universes



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Drag Queens, F/F, F/M, M/M, Modern AU, Swearing, gratuitous hatred towards landlords, jaskier being really fucking gay, this might be crack idk man
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:21:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23641513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazy_universes/pseuds/lazy_universes
Summary: The thing about Jaskier was that he was, without a shadow of doubt, a Millennial. Avocado toast stopping him from being a homeowner at age twenty-six? Check. Gay? Check. Useless college degree? Check. Crushing debt and no health care? Mama, that’s a full check. Hating on his landlord was just the cherry on top.The thing about Jaskier, also, was that life always found a way to bite him in the ass.Case in point: Geralt of fucking Rivia.(In which Jaskier is but a humble drag queen trying to make ends meet and hate on his landlord like a good gay in his late twenties. It was, however, a very difficult task when his landlord looked like- Well. Like Geralt.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 59
Kudos: 180





	1. she died on that toilet, mama

**Author's Note:**

> i spent my birthday in quarantine drinking a whole bottle of rose on my own and binge-watching RuPaul's Drag Race and UNHhhh episodes, then wrote this in a day because I was so sad about being locked up for my birthday. there's a minimal amount of angst and the plot is mostly Jaskier being a thirsty hoe. like, I've been sitting in this house for twenty-eight days, I've run out of fucks to give. 
> 
> also be patient with this soft Brazilian baby who doesn't have a beta. she's stress-eating a lot.

The thing about Jaskier was that he was, without a shadow of doubt, a Millennial. Avocado toast stopping him from being a homeowner at age twenty-six? Check. Gay? Check. Useless college degree? Check. Crushing debt and no health care? Mama, that’s a full check. 

Hating on his landlord was just the cherry on top. He’s been doing it for  _ ages _ , ever since he got kicked out by his father, and it was just  _ natural _ . Second nature, even. Like, his  _ parents _ rented houses, okay, he had enough backstory to confidently say that landlords needed to get a  _ real _ job. Like the one he had at Sephora. Sure as hell would be better than leeching off of people’s need of a roof over their heads. 

Fun fact about Jaskier - life always found a way to bite him in the ass. 

Case in point: Geralt of  _ fucking _ Rivia.

  
  
  


“Babe, this is a  _ nice _ one,” Angie said, setting a box down on the floor and taking in the space of his new apartment. “Big windows too! You can actually  _ see _ the city from here.  _ Damn _ .”

“Thanks, honey,” Jaskier said through his teeth, trying to punch one of said windows open. “Needs a bit of TLC, though.”

“I mean, she’ll be great with a little love. Like you would,” she said, and winked - Jaskier groaned, finally managing to push the damned thing wide open. 

Angie was right, though. His new studio was a sight for sore eyes - big ceiling to floor windows letting in the bright sun of an early morning of late May. The thermostat was busted, which was a pity, but his rent was five hundred bucks a  _ month _ and that was a fucking steal. His last place was eight hundred bucks for a shoebox he shared with a guy whose kink was collecting used underwear, so whatever he got that wasn’t  _ that _ , he’d consider a fucking victory. 

His last bedroom didn’t even have a window. One could imagine the  _ difficulty _ of such living conditions. 

“Honestly, by this price, I’ll marry this apartment,” Jaskier said, picking up the box Angie had set on the floor and checking if it was  _ really _ cutlery as it had been labeled before taking it to the open-floor kitchen by the left of the entryway. “I’ll make an honest woman out of her.”

“She’ll make an honest woman out of  _ you, _ babe,” Angie said, untying her brightly colored hair from the bun it had been tied high on her head and marching towards his decrepit fridge, fishing an open bottle of wine. “How long has this been open?”

“Yesterday? The day before yesterday? I don’t know,” Jaskier answered, eyeing the soft curls falling around her freckled shoulders, a stark contrast to her lose white t-shirt she wore with no bra on. Angie had really nice breasts, aesthetically speaking. “Can I just say that I did a  _ great _ job with your hair this time? Like, really. This blue and purple on you!”

“ _ God _ , I know!” Angie said, “Milva said it looks like a unicorn vomited on my hair, but that just means she loves it.”

“Milva is no fun,” Jaskier said. “Where  _ is _ she, by the way?” 

“Coming over with Regis and the last of the boxes,” Angie said, shrugging, and took a swig straight from the bottle. “Oh boy this is  _ nasty _ . This is  _ nasty _ wine.”

“Girl, if you think I’ve got the time or the money to get some fancy shit, you’ve got the wrong queen,” Jaskier said, hands on his waist. His studio was a whole mess of boxes, trash bags, suitcases and just a random assortment of things he had carried when he had first moved, two days before. His building didn’t have an elevator, but he was on the third floor, which was doable by stairs; he needed the exercise anyhow and apparently stairs were good for his glutes. Or whatever. He was a bit surprised by  _ how much _ shit he had hoarded throughout the past years - his therapist said once it was the underlying effect of being kicked out of the house with nothing but his clothes and his backpack as soon as he turned eighteen, but he’d rather just think it was because it was a necessary evil in his line of work. 

Drag queen. Jaskier was a drag queen. He had a day job at Sephora too, yeah, and he  _ had _ been to beauty school, but drag really got his groove going. And drag meant lots of wigs, costumes, and makeup, which he spent far more than what his paycheck would allow on. Employee discount only went so far, and if he wanted his house to look halfway presentable, he needed to pay Miss Ikea a visit very soon, lest all of his shit stayed safely tucked into slightly greasy boxes he had flirted relentlessly with an outrageously cute stocker at Costco to get for free. 

Anyhow. He had an old battered couch and a brand new box bed, which was his pride and joy. His fridge was worse for the wear, yes, and the kitchen cabinets definitively needed some work; Jaskier didn’t know if it was even possible, but he’d have to scrub every inch of the bathroom with a toothbrush and bleach to get some awkward green stains out of the tiles, but this was  _ his  _ home. His  _ own _ place, which he paid for with his  _ own _ money, and he couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride in his chest. It might’ve been too early to say he  _ did it _ , but it damn felt like he was on his way there. 

“So,” Angie threw herself on the couch, feet propped on the armrest, still nursing the bottle of wine. “Have you met the new object of your unadulterated hatred?”

“Hm?” Jaskier asked, trying to picture how big of a wardrobe he could get away without actually taking up an entire wall or compromising his entire budget. 

“Your new landlord,” she said, sipping on the wine and frowning deeply. “Have you met him?” 

“Who, Geralt? Not actually,” He said. “We’ve talked on the phone, but he’s out of town, I guess. A guy called Eskel handed me the keys. Like, let’s be real here. Five hundred bucks for  _ this _ ? He’s already in my good books.” 

“There’s got a be a catch,” Angie pondered. “Maybe he’s a convicted murderer?”

“Nuh-uh,” he said. “Triss gave me the background when she said he was renting because like, for the price, I honest to  _ god  _ was expecting to get my kidneys stolen. Guy is ex-Navy Seal, veteran, honorably discharged. Like some shit happened? I don’t know, Triss doesn’t either-”

“Who’s Triss, by the way?”

“Oh, one of our clients,” Jaskier said. “Lovely woman too. Lawyer, I think? She’s just the sweetest thing. I think she works in the building because she’s always around during lunchtime. Anyways, the landlord is the ex-husband of one of her friends, something like that.”

“Hm,” Angie said. “What did he sound like?”

“Not very eager to talk,” Jaskier admitted, “But eager to rent, apparently. I think he lives on the fifth floor or something and owes the building. That’s mostly what I know. We talked once through the phone and then we just texted. He doesn’t even have a profile picture.”

“Maybe he’s a homophobe,” Angie offered, drinking more of the wine and frowning. 

“I’m sorry, have you seen _me?_ _My_ profile picture is literally me wrapped in a pride flag in a San Francisco Pride, I don’t think you can get any gayer than that,” Jaskier said dryly. “If he was, then why would he have rented me the place?”

“Business is business,” Angie shrugged. “Maybe he has bad teeth.” 

“Oh, I’ve  _ had it _ with bad teeth,” Jaskier shuddered. “Like that one landlady I had, remember?” 

“Oh boy,  _ yes _ ,” Angie said. “The one who said your parents hate you because you’re too pretty?” 

“Man she was lovely,” he agreed. “Terrible dental hygiene, great heart.  _ It’s not because you’re gay, tots, it’s because of your baby blues! _ ”

“She was fun,” she agreed, “You know what she told me once? That my parents must’ve really hated me if they had the opportunity  _ not _ to call me Angoulême and still decided on it.”

“Jesus,” Jaskier snorted. 

“Great woman,” Angie said, taking another sip of wine. “Have you heard of her after you moved out?”

“Oh! Oh  _ girl _ ,” Jaskier said. “Met my old roommate at Chipotle the other day, didn’t I tell you? He said she had a heart attack and he got worried when he went there to pay his rent and she wouldn’t answer, so he called the cops and they found her dead but still sitting on the toilet. Like Elvis! She died on that toilet, mama!”

Angie, blessed be her soul, choked on her wine.

  
  
  
  
  
  


It had been a full week since he had moved in and he still hadn’t seen even the smallest trace of his landlord which, truth be told, worked great for him. The new place was closer to his club, but a bit farther away from his store than what he’d like, but he wasn’t about to complain. Instead, he decided to give this whole Audible thing a go during his commute and found it oddly inspiring. Nothing like the feeling of being an erudite queen to get one’s groove going while being squished to death in a packed subway. 

What that meant, in short, was that he had a very peaceful week despite the heat, but he did buy a fan and figured it was as good a time as any to cut a bit on his carbon footprint. He had never done drugs, but quitting things cold turkey could build some character - in his case, it was air conditioning. 

Not that he’d use it that often in his  _ last _ place. It always reeked of used underwear. 

He had a couple of hours to kill before he had to head to the club, and decided to start putting at least one of his shelves together. He’d told his friends that he’d decided for an  _ open _ sort of decor, like wearing his heart on his sleeve and just going for open shelves instead of a wardrobe. Truth was, those metal shelves were a dime a dozen at an Ikea clearance, and Jaskier had plenty of flaws, but being dumb with his money was definitely not one of them. 

So that was his situation in that Saturday morning - wearing an old Alyssa Edwards merch t-shirt, hair a mess, green clay mask on, running shorts because he was still lying to himself about going for a run before going out, and struggling to put together the most basic shelf arrangement he had ever seen in his life. 

He was  _ good _ at puzzles when he was a kid, what the  _ fuck- _

There was a knock on the door.

“Coming!” He said, trying to pull his shorts down to  _ not _ look like they were booty shorts. Which they were, and he should really stop making excuses to be dressed as he wanted in his own house. “Hi-”

There was a little girl on the other side of his door, not older than twelve, big gray eyes staring owlishly at him. She was tall for her age, he figured, but it wasn’t like he had any sort of background experience with tweens to know what their average size was; she had bony knees, a mouth full of braces, huge glasses, and was holding a bunch of keys in her hand. 

Her hair was an utter mess. It looked like someone had tried to tie it up in a bun but halfway through forgot what a brush, a bun, and what  _ hair  _ looked like, to begin with. 

“Hi!” She said, excitedly. “I’m Ciri. Geralt’s daughter. The Landlord?” 

“Oh. Oh!” He said, feeling awkwardly self-conscious. Which he shouldn’t, of course, because it was  _ his _ house, but he was still burdened with that sticky, gooey insecurity that stuck to his skin like glue when  _ he _ was a teen. Children made him feel like he was back at school, and that was  _ not _ a good feeling to have. “Hi. Julian. Jaskier. Most people call me Jaskier.” 

“That is a weird nickname for Julian,” she said, and he felt the tips of his ears burning bright red. 

“Julian is a very lame name for nicknames,” he said and felt some of the pressure on his chest ease off when she laughed brightly. “Anyways, hi. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too!” She said and handed him the keys in her hand. “So, these are the front door keys and also the fire escape keys Uncle Eskel forgot to hand you. Trash day is usually Thursday, but if you need to throw it out earlier Dad asks you to throw it directly on the dumpster. On Thursday he’ll collect for everyone while he’s getting our trash out, so you can just leave yours on the fire escape staircase and he’ll get it for you. The washing machine and the dryer in the basement are free to use, but you have to bring your own product. Also there’s a bunch of old ladies in the first and second floor so keep your noise down during the night as much as you can. You can bring friends over but be mindful of the ladies, they’re actually very nice, but they’re  _ old _ , so… Am I forgetting something?” 

“I’m sure you’ve covered a lot,” Jaskier said, stunned by the speed of her speech. It was like an automatic gun of  _ words _ . “Or most of it. If I have any questions I’ll be sure to give your dad a call.”

“Oh, don’t call, text. Dad  _ hates _ talking on the phone,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Also, he says sorry for not being the one to give you the keys and show you the place, we were visiting grandpa up in the farm and there’s no reception there, and then when we got here there was this  _ huge _ leak in my bathroom so he’s fixing it now. By the way! He’s going to be around to fix the thermostat too. It broke right before we left for the farm so he couldn’t do it, but he’s going to in the next days or so. Also, do you have a brush? Mine broke.”

_ Clearly _ , he thought, but figured being snarky to a  _ kid _ would most  _ definitely _ not get him a ticket to heaven, so he held his mouth shut, looking into his boxes until he could find one sturdy enough for the job and handing it to her. “Thanks,” she said- 

And shoved the brush right into the tangled mess of her hair. 

“Oh  _ God _ don’t do that,” Jaskier screeched, holding her wrist in place with his left hand and carefully extracting the brush from the pale-blond strands. “Listen, honey. If you want hair this big, you  _ gotta _ learn how to care for it.” 

“We’re learning,” Ciri said, apparently not offended by what was definitely a very rude sentence. “Me and my dad, I mean. Mom knows how, but it’s difficult when she’s not around that much, at least not in person. Like, it’s  _ very _ difficult teaching Dad how to do anything over facetime.” 

“Huh,” Jaskier said, filing that bit of information in his brain. “Well, let me just- Jesus, okay. Turn your back to me. Do you like this hair tie?”

“I don’t really care?” Ciri answered, confused, and he ran back to his boxes to find a pair of scissors. 

“Good thing then, because this thing  _ has _ to come off,” he said, carefully snipping it open, letting the mass of hair fall freely on her back. He turned her back towards him, handed her the brush, and held her by the shoulders, mustering as much seriousness as he could as he looked her in the eyes. “You’re gonna go back home, and you’re gonna get in the shower, and you’re gonna get your hair  _ completely _ soaked with conditioner. Whatever you think is enough conditioner, you’re gonna add  _ more _ .  _ Then _ you start brushing it. Begin with the tips and slowly make your way towards the roots. Got it?” 

“I guess,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Are you a hairstylist?”

“Something like that,” he said, vaguely. “Take the brush. God knows you need it more than I do.” 

“You’re a funny guy,” she said, smiling, and waved him goodbye as she made her way up the stairs two steps at a time. “See ya, Jaskier!” 

“See ya,” he said, watching until she disappeared from sight to close the door. The girl was nice, definitely, but he wasn’t sure how much of it was actually  _ because _ her dad was a nice guy. 

Anyhow, he’d find out soon enough. And he was late for the club anyways. 

  
  
  


Jaskier had never done drugs because he was sensitive. And not sensitive as one would expect, looking at him, as the clingy and romantic type and all that bullshit he had  _ no  _ time for because he was busy hustling and working and making ends meet. No, Jaskier was as light as a fucking  _ feather _ . He was lighter than a soft plume coming out straight of a hummingbird’s ass. He could barely  _ look _ at hard liquor and he’d get drunk - after a lot of practice and a whole bunch of vomiting during college, he’d stretched his limit to two glasses of wine or one and a  _ half _ glass of champagne because Lord be his witness, the bubbles went up  _ fast _ . 

He was also a horny drunk when he went past his limit, or so Regis had thoroughly reported back to him. 

But like, if there ever was good enough reason to be wasted, celebrating his new apartment and the generous tips patrons handed him at the club was definitely high up that list. So he started his routine with a glass of rosé, like he always did, but then had  _ two _ whole glasses when he was done, and boy did he turn the party up. 

It was all good. He had it all arranged with Regis and Milva beforehand, so it was some responsible irresponsible drinking, and the worst that had happened was him debuting his freshly scrubbed toilet with some puking. 

Also he didn’t take his makeup off. But his left eyelash had jumped ship somewhere along the way back home, which was a  _ pity _ , because he’d spent some good time customizing his 301s. He vaguely remembered crying about it before falling asleep, which didn’t bode well. 

But that wasn’t the point. He had a lovely show, he had lots of fun- 

And there was someone knocking at his door at the asscrack of dawn. 

His head felt as big and brittle as a balloon as he painstakingly made his way down the bed, cringing at the whole  _ mess  _ his eyeliner had left on his sheets. There was so much glitter on his hands it probably looked like he had fisted a unicorn, and his mouth tasted exactly like he had deepthroated a whole umbrella. He needed a very greasy breakfast, water, some aspirin, and a  _ shower _ , not necessarily in this order.

The knocking continued, relentlessly, and he groaned. He really hoped it wasn’t one of those old ladies. They might be cool gals, but the whole wrecked-drag-queen look was definitely  _ not _ one for first impressions - he’d wipe a bit of it off if he had enough brain cells left to care. 

“Hi. Sorry. I was-” He said, opening the door- 

The guy on the other side was a  _ god _ . 

Like, if he had to describe a greek god, that’d be his standard from then on. Chiseled jaw, five o’clock shadow, messy bun of pale gray hair, pecs for  _ days _ , and the man  _ did not _ skip squats from what he could tell. The buttons of his shirt were begging for mercy under the strain to keep his chest clothed, and he had the most beautiful amber eyes, hidden under a deeply furrowed brow-

Jaskier was acutely aware, then, that he only had eyelashes on one eye. Also, that he had cried most of his eyeliner off. He wished he could say he was serving expressionism realness but truth be told, he was 110% sure he just looked like a deranged Taylor Swift in no shirt, outrageously orange sweatpants, and bunny slippers. 

At least he had taken his wig off. Bless the Lord for small mercies. 

“Uh,” he said, lost for words, and wishing the ground would just open up and swallow him whole, “Um. You are?” 

“Geralt,” the guy grunted. “Landlord?” 

_ Oh fuck me sideways with a pogo stick _ , Jaskier thought. Honestly, though, at that time, he wasn’t really sure if it was a curse or merely wishful thinking. 


	2. so thoroughly queerly gay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> politics? in my fanfiction? it's more likely than you think

+1-617-555-0175 (11:51): hey jaskier!!! it’s ciri 

+1-617-555-0175 (11:51): dad headed down there to fix the thermostat

+1-617-555-0175 (11:51): he forgot your brush tho 

+1-617-555-0175 (11:52): i’ll give it back before i leave for scouts

  
  
  
  


“Look, I am so, _so_ sorry,” Jaskier said, toweling his hair dry. “Honestly, I didn’t understand Ciri actually meant _today_ -”

“She didn’t, but I had the time today,” Geralt grunted squinting as he messed around with the thermostat. “I should’ve called.”

“No, dear god, it’s _your_ building, you don’t have to- I mean, I’m an early riser, so-”

“It’s half past noon,” Geralt said dryly, and Jaskier never failed to marvel at how flexible he was that it was just so easy for him to shove his foot right in his mouth. Maybe it was a kink for some people, like this one ex-boyfriend he had that had a thing with _toes_ , specifically. 

“Oh boy,” Jaskier sighed, trying to make himself small on his own battered couch. There was no way out of showering when Geralt had knocked - he had half expected the guy to just turn on his heels and pretend that whole _gig_ had never happened, but he had to hand it to him. Jaskier was 99.9% sure Geralt was about to call the cops or at least the closest mental hospital, but his face was as surprised and shocked as an Easter Island statue. “Well, the _very_ least I can offer you is a cup of coffee-”

“Julian, it’s your place. What you do inside the flat is not my problem as long as you keep your door shut and your noise down,” Geralt said, kneeling down and picking a small flashlight to look up the hole of the thermostat. “The casing on the wiring melted off. I’m gonna have to call an electrician, but I’m sure they won’t come today.”

“I’ve got a fan, it’s fine,” Jaskier said, standing up and marching towards his coffee pot, opening his cabinets to find that sweet, sweet powdered ambrosia. Mister Adonis there might not need it, but the whole situation felt like a hallucination enough as it was, no need to keep feeling like he got run over by a monster truck also. “Also, Jaskier.”

“Hmm?” Geralt grunted, trying to fish the melted copper wires from inside the plaster of the wall. 

“Jaskier,” he said, turning the coffee pot on. Quick little thing it was, and the coffee was garbage, but the trick was just adding sugar like he actually had free healthcare. “You can call me Jaskier. Calling me Julian sounds a lot like my mom.”

“I have no interest in being your mother,” Geralt said, and how come a person who was _that_ hot was _so_ dry? Every time he spoke it was like the Sahara desert falling out of that beautiful throat. Jaskier was sure he’d never seen an Adam's apple that gorgeous in his entire _life_. 

And you know what? It was _fine_. Jaskier did _not_ have a Mommy kink, thank you. 

Geralt stood up from where he’d been kneeling, wiping his hands on his jeans, hands framing the perfect swell of his ass, and Jaskier honest to God nearly poured coffee all over himself. 

A _daddy_ kink, on the other hand... 

“I’ll have this fixed by Friday at the latest,” Geralt said. “We can discuss a discount on your utilities-”

“ _Jesus Christ_ ,” Jaskier said, eyeing Geralt like a second head had sprouted out of his neck. A discount on his _utilities_? Was this guy for fucking _real_? “Geralt, what the hell, it’s _fine_. The place is great. I’ve got a fan. My carbon footprint is very high. I am _not_ dying of a heat stroke before Friday.” 

“Hmm,” Geralt hummed, putting his tools back into his toolbox and standing up in his full height. _Damn_ the man was tall. Call him Zoboomafoo, bitch, cause he was going to climb that man like a goddamn _tree_. 

It had been many years since he had last stepped in a church, but he found himself overrun with a sudden need to get on his knees and pray. _Nasty_ thoughts were filling his head. Just _nasty_. If he wasn’t such a staunch atheist he’d already be packing up for his one-way trip straight to the Devil’s lap. The guy had a _kid_ , for Christ’s sake. 

“What you did with Ciri’s hair,” Geralt grunted, avoiding his eyes - Jaskier raised an eyebrow, sipping on his coffee, “I- Thanks. I wasn’t sure how to do it.”

“No problem,” Jaskier said, feeling something warm blooming in his chest. “I went to beauty school, I know a thing or two. Consider it repaid if you’ll call me Jaskier.”

Oh God he flirted with the guy he _flirted with his landlord holy fucking shIT he FLirtED witH HIs LaNdLoRd-_

But then, like the skies will open after a long day of pouring rain, as spring melted the snow off the trees, Geralt finally looked him in the eye, 

And fucking _smiled_. 

“Debt settled then, Jaskier,” he said, and fucking left the apartment leaving Jaskier with a steaming hot cup of coffee in his hands, a dry-ass face that definitely needed some love after all the scrubbing it went through, and the beginnings of a problem in between his legs that he would _not_ , and most _definitely_ would _not_ think about. He had _standards_. He had morals and ethics. He would _not_ jerk off to his landlord. 

  
  
  
  


He lasted a whole one and a half days before he jerked off to his landlord. 

“So,” Regis said, pouring himself a generous amount of champagne. Far more than what his mother insisted, once upon a time, was the polite amount, but to be fair, not even herself took that advice. “Week _two,_ you hit on your hot landlord. Week three, will you be bouncing on his lap?”

“I did _not_ hit on him!” Jaskier said, indignantly. He was halfway through his first Bellini and already feeling tipsy, but it was brunch day, and there was no such thing as not drinking even a little bit during brunch day. Besides, it was a Sunday, what else was he supposed to do? It was either that or watching Drag Race All Stars for the umpteenth time, and since he practically could recite all of it by heart - also sing all of Read U Wrote U including the Roxxy part - this was his best option. 

But despite his utter embarrassment, the week had passed pretty uneventfully. Ciri’s school and his work began roughly the same time; they’d walk together down the street until he went on to the subway station and she took a left and walked to her school. The electrician had fixed his thermostat Thursday night, but he decided he’d stick with his fan - that lasted approximately three and a half hours into the night, and he decided it’d count as a victory. 

Also, he kept seeing Geralt _everywhere_. 

Building’s garage, fixing his bike. Out for a run. Getting the trash out. Walking Ciri’s incredibly snappy Pomeranian. Grocery Shopping. Helping one of his neighbors with her door lock while the eighty-year-old crone swooned (the other old ladies were nice, but Pamela was a fucking racist and he hated her already). Geralt seemingly forgot about their introduction, and merely nodded at him when they met going up or down the stairs, but Jaskier had most _definitely_ not. 

You know who else hadn’t forgotten about their encounter? 

His dick. 

“What is it that you said?” Milva teased, “ _Consider it repaid if you call me Jaskier_. You didn’t hit on the guy, you fucking knocked him out.”

“It was involuntary!” Jaskier protested, poking at his eggs benedict with a bit more strength than he should. 

“Oh darling, it always is,” Angie said. “You had to let him know you’re gay. You know, if the whole radioactive Drag Queen thing wasn’t indication enough.”

“I don’t _have_ to let him know shit,” Jaskier said. The restaurant was full, chatter loud, but a middle-aged woman with hair so bleached it begged for the sweet embrace of a pair of scissors on the table next to him gave him a side-eye. He figured he was squealing, but the whole thing was too embarrassing, and his friends were the _worst_. “Besides, I don’t _look_ that gay out of drag-”

Milva, Angie, and Regis collectively choked on their drinks. 

“Jaskier, darling, _babe_ ,” Regis said, holding on his forearm while Milva and Angie howled in laughter. “You are so fucking gay, let me tell you about you for a second. Hi, how’s it going? You are the most thoroughly queerly gay fucking piece of shit I’ve ever met in my entire life. Did you know?”

“I did not, thanks for informing me,” Jaskier said dryly. 

“Aw, don’t pout!” Angie said, squeezing his cheeks. “This is the universe at work. You’ve hated landlords for so long, now you must come to terms with the inherent inequality of property ownership in post-modern America-”

“I just want to blow him, don’t read into it,” Jaskier said, and sighed. “Look, the guy is _super_ hot, I’m not denying that. But the apartment is really good _and_ he’s a really nice landlord, like, there’s no denying _that_ either.”

“True,” Milva pondered, sipping on her Aperol Spritz. “When you said he wanted to cut down on your utilities because of the thermostat I was like, I’d kiss that guy. Right then and right there. And I’m gay.”

“Thoroughly queerly gay,” Angie nodded. “But I don’t see the correlation.”

“I don’t want to lose the place,” Jaskier shrugged. “If it goes to shit.”

“If it goes to shit that’s a problem of Tomorrow Jaskier,” Regis noted. “Today Jaskier hasn’t had sex in so long he creaks like a rusty hinge when he walks. So there’s that.”

“He’s straight, haven’t you been fucking listening?” Jaskier said. “Ex-Navy Seal? With a kid and everything?”

“Yes, but you’re a hot piece of ass, don’t put yourself down like that,” Angie said. “And like, you never _know_. I had a boyfriend when I met Milva.”

“And he was _terrible_ , babe,” Milva answered, “The bar was really low. But hey, that’s a good question. Where is the kid’s mom?” 

Jaskier pondered on the question, tapping his fingers on the table. He _had_ thought about it, but couldn’t find a good enough answer. What he did know was this: Ciri’s mother didn’t live with them. Whoever she was, she lived far away enough it wasn’t feasible for her to just pop by whenever she wished. Ciri didn’t speak of her as if she was dead, which was something, but Geralt didn’t have a wedding ring either, which was _also_ something. Jaskier knew Geralt had been married before, which is how Triss came to know him, but it wasn’t like people couldn't be married several times. 

He had managed to squeeze some nonchalant questions about it when he was helping Barbara - the other resident eighty-year-old, fortunately not a racist, just hippie as fuck - with her groceries, and she said she’d seen the woman once. Apparently she was stunning, probably a CEO or whatnot, walking around in very high heels ( _“My varicose veins just screamed when I saw it, I’ll tell you”_ , Barbara had said, which was _definitely_ TMI thank you) and she and Geralt had yelled themselves hoarse arguing about something before she left. 

“I think they’re divorced,” Jaskier said, finally. “And she lives out of town. I’ve _heard_ Ciri talking to her on the phone, but not Geralt, but then again, I’m out for most of the day. But they could _also_ not be divorced, and she just lives somewhere else for work.”

“Maybe,” Milva said, humming. “Good thing the kid isn’t an orphan, at least.”

“Way she dresses in the morning, you could’ve fooled me,” Jaskier said. “Just this Friday she was wearing her jeans inside out. I was like, Ciri, your jeans are a bit wrong, and she honest to God stood still for like a couple of seconds and said, you think I should go fix it?”

“Oh, yikes,” Angie frowned. “You think he’s neglectful or something?”

“Oh, no no no,” Jaskier said, hurriedly. “I think he’s just clueless. Like he hasn’t lived with her for very long, or at least not as her primary caretaker. She’s fed and she’s happy but it’s like he isn’t used to girl things. But I think he’s trying. He did thank me for helping with her hair.”

“I get the feeling, but like, I won’t give him props for being a single dad and doing the bare minimum,” Milva said. “I mean, I guess it’s nice of him to make an effort. But women do shit like this all the time and they don’t get a cookie for figuring it out on their own. Regis, baby boy, is your phone more important than your _friends_?”

“What? Ah, sorry,” Regis answered, putting his phone down on the tabletop and scratching his day-old beard. “Senator Yennefer went berserk at Trump on Twitter, it’s trending everywhere. _Damn,_ she’s a savage.”

“That woman could step on me with those sky-high heels and all I’d say is thank you, does tomorrow work for you too?” Angie said, and Jaskier nodded, raising his Bellini in a toast. 

“Preach it, sis,” he said. 

  
  
  


**@SenYenneferVeng** Regarding the recent POTUS comments about me, I am not surprised. The man wouldn’t know how to respect a woman even if she gave birth to his children.

 **@MAGAChris38475:** _@SenYenneferVengerberg_ at least the first lady is getting it on a regular unlike you 

**@SenYenneferVeng:** _@MAGAChris38475712_ I don’t much enjoy being pissed on, but to each their own. 

**@SenYenneferVeng:** Which reminds me. Brazilian Trump Wannabe, Bolsonaro, has recently made headlines wondering what a “golden shower” is. Maybe his friend could give him a call and offer some clarification. 

  
  


**@jairmbolsonaro:** O que é Golden Shower?

 **@SenYenneferVeng:** _@jairmbolsonaro_ @realDonaldTrump

  
  


When Jaskier was about eight or nine, his sister rescued a street cat, and for some reason he couldn’t quite recall, they had to give the thing a bath with a very specific product. Fleas, he thought, but couldn’t be sure; might as well have been the Devil’s spirit in possession of that little shit. The product’s smell was foul, but the allergic reaction it caused in his sister was even worse - one EpiPen and a hospital trip later, he was the only soul left who was willing to finish giving the cat a bath. 

Animals, in general, were not overly fond of him, but Medusa fucking _hated_ him. You can imagine how well that bath went. 

Later that Sunday, when he opened his front door thinking it was the Postmates delivery guy with his Pad Thai and was met with a very distraught Geralt holding an incredibly angry and disheveled Ciri by the nape, he couldn’t help but think about trying to give his sister’s deranged cat a bath and failing _miserably_. 

“Uh,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Jaskier, hi,” Geralt said, swallowing. “Ciri has a competition today-”

“Jaskier, I think dad just ripped _half_ of my scalp away!” Ciri protested, pointing at the utter mess on her head. “My trainer said that if I don’t look the least put together I’m not going to compete-”

“You need help, yes,” Jaskier completed. Geralt looked like he might run at the smallest movement - instinctually, he opened his door slowly. “Come in.”

“I’ll come back when she’s done,” Geralt answered. “Don’t wanna impose.” 

“Geralt, don’t take this the wrong way, but I really think you should at least sit down and learn how to undo this mess,” Jaskier said - Ciri’s frown eased up a little as she walked into his apartment, Geralt trailing behind like the world’s moodiest dog. It would be cute if he weren’t wearing these _incredible_ ass-hugging jeans. As it was, it was incredibly hot. 

“So,” Jaskier said, locking his door and guiding Ciri to one of his mismatched dinner chairs, “What are we competing for?”

“Gymnastics,” Geralt grunted, looking oddly off-putting standing in the middle of his living room. 

“The couch won’t bite,” Jaskier noted, and Geralt frowned before letting himself sit. The man was so large he nearly took all of the couch just with his knees. Jaskier swallowed thickly, trying to focus on the task at hand. 

“My leotard is purple,” Ciri informed him, “So I bought this purple lipstick-”

“Oookay,” Jaskier said, inspecting the absolute wreck she had made of her lips with pale lilac lip gloss. It was gross. “Here’s what I’m gonna do then. A high bun with a couple of braids, and then I’m gonna get you some quick makeup, okay?” 

“You don’t like my lipstick?”

“Not that, baby girl,” Jaskier said, avoiding Geralt’s gaze like the plague. He could feel it burning holes on his back, sitting with his arms crossed and knees spread wide, and if they looked at each other Jaskier wouldn’t be able to keep up the lie for another second. “It’s just that you’re going to sweat a lot, right? So you need some makeup that won’t melt off when you’re competing.” 

“Do they teach you this at beauty school?” Ciri asked, fidgeting in place. Jaskier handed her his phone. 

“Find something you like and stand still,” he said, inspecting the mess on her scalp. It was a half-assed braid, which should be easy enough to untangle. “How long do we have?”

“Two hours,” Geralt grunted. “We began early.”

“Dad knew he’d make a mess,” Ciri pouted, scrolling through his list of streaming services. “What is Wow Presents?” 

“A channel for drag culture content,” Jaskier said absently, moving to his room to pull his makeup and hair bag and say a small prayer for himself before going to battle. 

“Oh!” Ciri squealed, “Like the ones we saw during pride last year, dad!”

“Hmm,” Geralt hummed, and Jaskier blinked a few times before registering what the girl had said. During pride. _During pride?_

“You’ve been to the pride parade?” Jaskier said, trying to be nonchalant and failing miserably; if Ciri took notice, however, she said nothing, scrolling through the shows on his phone while he began detangling her hair. 

“Yeah, Dad took me to meet with my mom,” She said. _Oh_ , Jaskier thought. So her _mother_ was gay. Interesting. “I loved the drag queens. They were super pretty. And their hair!”

“Why, thank you,” Jaskier said, smiling. “Geralt, look at how I’m holding her hair. Begin by the ends and then work your way up when detangling. Buy a spray bottle like this one to get it damp enough to work with-”

Once he’d fallen into a working mindset, it was easy enough ignoring Geralt’s annoyed grunts while he explained things - he decided he’d have better luck getting Ciri to understand how to get it done, and Jaskier took his time explaining what all the products and brushes were. She was a curious child and learned quickly. It took him less than forty-five minutes to get her hair in a bun, some blush on her cheeks, a purple cat eyeliner on her eyelids, and a sensible coral lipstick on her lips. Ciri squealed with joy when she saw herself in the mirror, and _pounced_ on Jaskier, hugging him by his waist. 

“Thank you!” She said, excitedly. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! Dad, look how pretty I am!” 

“That you are,” Geralt said, standing up from the couch. “Go get your things then. We have to get there early.”

“Okay,” she said, bolting out of the door like a squirrel on caffeine - Jaskier snickered, beginning to put his things back in order. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, “If you want to talk a price-”

“Oh _please_ , Geralt,” Jaskier said, waving his hand. “It wasn’t like I was _busy_. Besides, look how happy it made her!”

“Yeah, I know,” He said - his eyes were distant, almost liquid gold under the sunset light filtering through his studio’s windows. “I’m- really not good. At any of it.” 

“Hey, don’t say that,” Jaskier said. Something deep in his chest ached - despite Geralt’s annoyingly handsome face being stuck on the “stony” setting, Jaskier could see he was _definitely_ out of his depth. It was lovely, really. Geralt clearly didn’t know much about raising a girl who wanted to do feminine things. “You’re _trying_. That’s better than what most parents can say about themselves.”

“That’s the _least_ any parent can say about themselves,” Geralt said, raising an eyebrow. 

“Then you don’t know many parents,” Jaskier said, giving an empty laugh. He shook his head, trying to chase the thoughts of his family away. His therapist would only see him on Tuesday. Sundays were _not_ for an existential crisis. Sundays were for Bellinis and for crying over Call Me By Your Name, which was what he was doing before Geralt and Ciri barged into his apartment. “Anyways, you’ll get the hang of it as long as you don’t give up. And don’t pull on Ciri’s hair. General rule of thumb, no one really likes having their scalp pulled off.”

Geralt scoffed, putting his hands in his pockets. 

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” He said, then paused. “I- Well. I only have a ticket for the competition. I don’t usually get more than one. But if you want to come, next time, I think Ciri would like it.”

“Oh,” Jaskier said, feeling his heart hammering in his chest. “If Ciri invites me, I’ll definitely go.”

And Geralt- 

Honest to god-

 _Smiled_. 

_“I’m Roxxy Andrews and I’m here to make it clear,”_ The TV yelled at them, and his smile immediately turned into a frown. 

_FuCkInG-_

“That is _bad,_ ” he noted, and Jaskier cackled. 

“That’s half the fun,” he said. “Would you mind taking a couple of pictures of her for my portfolio?”

“Not at all,” Geralt said, making his way out of his apartment. “Thank you, Jas.”

 _Jas_ , his mind repeated, and kept repeating it on a loop until he realized he’d been standing for ten minutes, Roxxy Andrews had already Sashayed Away, and he never really got his Pad Thai.

“Oh _shit-_ ” he said, scrambling for his phone.

  
  
  
  


**@SenYenneferVeng** Being a working mother is difficult, and some days are harder than others. Thank God for the technology that helps this distance hurt a little less. Congrats on your 1st place, Owlette! I’ll fill you with enough kisses for a lifetime soon <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay. i was planning on posting this every Sunday, but ya girl is a human rights attorney and you can imagine work is eating me alive rn. it's as they say: this was the craziest week in Brazilian politics since last week, etc etc

**Author's Note:**

> if you guess which UHNnnn episode the chapter title came from, I'll give you a prize. dunno which one. idk, send me a prompt and I'll work it into the story. 
> 
> Tumblr is lazy-universes.tumblr.com if you want to come yell at me


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